Dickon nodded gratefully.
‘They never knew Adam was there, did they?“ Frevisse said to set him going again.
Dickon shook his head. “He drew off and went away, and they never knew he’d seen. But he told me about it afterwards. And some of the other boys.”
And, being boys, they had probably laughed over it.
Very far from laughter but holding her anger out of her voice, Frevisse asked, “When was it he saw them?”
‘Before Midsummer. A little before. He said the next time he saw Father Edmund and Mary was at the court then, and he kept wanting to laugh because he kept remembering…“
Dickon broke off, embarrassed again, and Frevisse pushed him for no more. He had said enough, and still keeping her feelings from her voice, she told him, “Thank you, Dickon. You’ve done well, telling us this. Can you keep it to yourself a while longer? Both what you know and that you’ve told us?”
‘Of course,“ he said, sounding in his certainty very like his father.
Chapter 20
Dame Frevisse sent Dickon off to the church, to help Anne and keep the children company, she said. He went willingly enough, leaving Simon to wish he could go with him, wish he could go to Anne and hold her and be held by her and for just a little while be done with all of this. Because he was afraid. Afraid of what they had learned and afraid of where it might lead. So afraid that he was cold with it.
And in a voice as cold as he felt, Dame Frevisse said, staring away down the green at nothing, “Tell me about Tom Hulcote’s wounds.”
‘His wounds?“ Simon groped to find why she would ask that. ”What about his wounds?“
‘What way was his skull was broken? You said his head was broken in on the side. The right side, I think.“ She might have been asking which way the street ran for all the feeling she showed. ”Was it from top to bottom? From front to back?“
‘From front to back,“ Simon said, understanding that much of what she wanted. As one of the ”finders“ of the body, he had had to look it over with Bert, Walter, John and Hamon, to be able to witness later to the crowner if asked, but that did not mean he liked thinking about it. ”Or back to front. Could have been either way.“
‘Was it done with something blunt or edged?“
‘It wasn’t sliced into, like with an ax. More battered, like.“
‘Then it might be crushed in more near the hand-end of whatever he was hit with, where there’d be more force,“ Dame Frevisse said.
A little thick in the throat with trying not to remember too clearly how Tom’s head had looked, wondering how a nun came to think on something like that, Simon answered, “I didn’t look that closely.”
‘Has he been buried already?“
‘Yesterday, soon as Master Montfort had done with him.“ And Simon prayed she would not want him dug up.
‘Where was he stabbed?“
‘In the back.“
‘On the right side or left?“
‘The right.“
‘High or low or in the middle?“
‘Low. Below the ribs.“
‘Did the blade go in upward, straight, or down?“
‘I never looked! Nor anyone else either, that I know of. He was stabbed and dead and that was enough.“
‘With a knife, a dagger, a sword?“
‘Not a sword,“ Simon said. ”The wound was too narrow for a sword blade. I don’t know there’s anyone in the village even has a sword.“
But Dame Frevisse was gone into some thought of her own again, leaving him to his own, and that was no pleasure. Knowing Mary had betrayed Matthew had been bad enough but to know she’d betrayed Tom, too—at the same time she’d been betraying Matthew—and with a priest. Their own priest. With Father Edmund, who in the ten months he’d been here had baptized four babies into the Church’s grace, given the Last Rite at their dying to Gil Jardyn’s boy and little Jack Gregory, old Peter Whit-lock and Joan Cufley to bring them to God’s mercy. The man who at every Mass held Christ’s Body in his hands. Hands that between whiles held Mary. Another man’s wife. Another man’s paramour.
These past days, when they’d had neither husband nor other lover to worry over, how “comforting” had Father Edmund been?
Beside him Dame Frevisse said, “It’s why she was urging Tom Hulcote to leave here. Not for his sake but to clear the way between her and Father Edmund.”
Bitter with certainty, Simon agreed, “Aye. She knew Tom’d not bear it if he found out. He’d have killed her.”
‘Only it was Tom who was killed,“ Dame Frevisse said very quietly, leaving Simon to see what lay between his thought and hers.
He did and tried to answer her but could make no word come out before she went on carefully, “If Tom came on them together and went into a rage, Father Edmund could well have had to kill him.”
‘Aye,“ Simon forced out. ”And then tried to hide he’d done it.“ By making him and Gilbey look guilty in his stead.
‘And then there’s the matter of Mary’s husband’s death,“ Dame Frevisse said in that same cold, level voice.
‘What? Nay, it was some thief off Wroxton way did for Matthew.“
‘Was it? Matthew’s death was as convenient to their ends as Tom’s leaving was supposed to be. She needed to be rid of both of them.“
‘She drove Matthew off, that’s all. Same as she was trying to drive Tom off. It worked with one, not with the other, that’s all.“
‘Miserable though she’d made him, was Matthew all that likely to strike out on his own? And why would he sell the horse he’d stolen before he’d gone even a dozen miles on his way?“
‘He was frighted he’d be caught with it. He’d not thought it through when he did it, and when he did, all he wanted was to be rid of it.“ Simon grabbed at something else. ”Anyway, leave be the small chance there’d be of Father Edmund finding Matthew on the road to kill him after he left here, he’d not been out of the village even half a day since Lent. So even if the priest killed him here, there was no time he could have shifted the body all the way to Wroxton.“ He caught up to another thought and added before Dame Frevisse could ask, his mind beginning to cast the way hers did. ”Nor Mary neither. She’s not been gone anytime this year and maybe more.“
He had a momentary hope when Dame Frevisse held silent as if thinking on that and then seemed to go another way, asking, “Did your sister know how unlikely it was you’d give Matthew Woderove’s holding to Tom Hulcote?”
‘She knew how little I thought of him and how I thought even less of the two of them. She knew he’d not have it from me, if the choice was mine.“
‘Master Naylor thought differently on it.“
‘He saw more in Tom than I could.“ Simon admitted it unwillingly. ”He wasn’t so set against him as I was.“
‘With Master Naylor removed from the decisioning, Tom had almost no chance at all of having the Woderove holding?“
‘Aye.“
‘But Mary, despite she knew better, led him on to think he had a chance. Why?“
Flat under the weight of his anger as he understood where she was going, Simon said, “So that when he was refused and angry over it, she could bring him to leave here and leave her.” To Father Edmund. Sickness curdled in the back of Simon’s throat, because however Tom had come to his death, Mary had been at the root of it.
‘The trouble is,“ Dame Frevisse said, ”we’ve no proof, only guesses.“
‘It makes sense where there wasn’t any,“ Simon said heavily.
‘What about the rumors of something between him and Elena Dunn?“
‘She’s been named with nigh every man in the village one time or another, but nobody’s ever seen aught that I’ve heard.“ But nobody had ever seen aught between Mary and Father Edmund either, save a couple of boys who had not seen fit to say so to anyone.
But Dame Frevisse was away along her own track of thought with, “Gilbey is gone.”
It was like an ill echo. Matthew was
gone. Tom was gone. Gilbey was gone… Sharply Simon said, “He’s cleared off to keep out of Master Montfort’s hold, is all. His wife says he’s gone to Banbury, but I’d wager he’s gone to Lord Lovell, to set him against Master Montfort’s purposes.”
Dame Frevisse said naught for or against that possibility but went back to where she had been. “The trouble still lies in proving anything. All we have is likelihood, not proof.” She sat up more straightly and her voice changed, took on an edge. “But it can’t be left that way. I need the four jurors brought to me again. And Mary.”
‘What?“ Simon said. ”Why?“
‘And one of the crowner’s men.“ She stood up. ”I know which one. I’ll bring him.“
Simon stood up because he should be standing if she was but asked, “Not Master Montfort?”
‘Never Master Montfort. Send someone to fetch the jurors back. You bring your sister, but say nothing about what we’ve learned or suspicion. May we use your house for this?“
She had not yet told him what “this” was but he said, “Aye. But best I send someone else for Mary, please you, and go for the jurors myself. She’ll not come for my asking.”
‘So long as she comes.“
‘And Father Edmund?“
“Not Father Edmund,” Dame Frevisse said. “Yet.”
Walter made the most trouble over it. Stopping where he was, he stared off along what was left of yesterday’s cut of hay still needing to be turned for drying and asked, “How’s this to be done then? And you said I’m to hoe the beans this afternoon. What’s to happen to my own if I’m forever being dragged off for this juror business?”
‘I’ll count today’s time you’ve spent on jury against your work due Lord Lovell,“ Simon said recklessly.
‘And me?“ Hamon said. He was better at whining than any man ought to be. ”What’s in it for me then?“
‘You get to count sitting about as work,“ Simon said, and since sitting about was the sort of work Hamon did best, that satisfied him.
John left off raking biddably enough when Simon asked him to come, and Bert was no trouble, leaving the alehouse readily enough when Simon thrust his head in at the door and said he was needed, except he started on the same questions the others had already asked and Simon didn’t answer him either, just jerked his head toward the others and said, “Ask them. They know as much as you’re going to.”
His worry that Mary might not obey wasn’t reassured by sight of Geva leaving his house with close-clapped mouth and a glare, but when he asked, “Did she come?” Geva answered tartly, “Oh, aye,” stalking past and saying over her shoulder as she went, “She’s in there. Her and that nun and they’re welcome to each other, they are, and you, too, Simon Perryn.”
Today the shutters at the windows on both sides of the house were let down to the day’s warm brightness and what little air was moving, sweet with the scent of drying hay, and there was light enough that Simon’s pause on the threshold was from habit more than need to usen to the shadows, but it gave him time to take in Dame Frevisse standing at the far side of the table and Mary at its far end with between them a prickling silence and a fox-haired, uneasy young man in the crowner’s livery. Cisily at the hearth was bent to stir whatever simmered in the pot there, and Dickon was standing across from her holding a bowl. As the savory smell reminded Simon’s belly of how long ago breakfast had been, Cisily looked along the room toward him and said, tipping her head toward Dame Frevisse, “She says you’re none of you going to eat now. Is that so?”
Simon cast Dame Frevisse a look of his own but already had answer ready, because despite his hunger, he was afraid his gorge would rise if he sat down to eat with Mary as things were now, and he said, “Aye. We’ll wait.”
Cisily grumbled, “Well, then,” as if he’d taken leave of his senses and turned back to Dickon. “You can take what’s going to the church then.”
‘Dickon will be needed here,“ Dame Frevisse said with cold command. ”Best you take it yourself.“
Cisily’s mouth, halfway to being open in protest, closed. She settled for giving Dame Frevisse a hard stare, then set to gathering up wooden bowls, spoons, a loaf of bread, and a knife into a basket and took up the pot from the fire with a towel wrapped around its handle for carrying, all in a stiff-backed, offended silence to which Dame Frevisse gave no heed, going on standing with bowed head, looking at no one in a silence no one cared to break, though Bert, Walter, John and Hamon shared looks with each other and toward Simon that Simon gave no sign of seeing, trying to be as apart as Dame Frevisse. The crowner’s man kept likewise warily still. Only Mary gave open, restless show of her impatience, casting displeased looks around at everyone and, as Cisily was leaving, managed to catch Simon’s eye and mouth at him, “What?”, but Simon looked away and kept on looking away until Cisily was gone and Dame Frevisse raised her head to say cold voiced into the silence, “Sit down.”
It was a general command, not a request, and no one questioned it, not even Mary. The crowner’s man moved first, sitting on the bench along the far side of the table with the slight, tense frown of someone trusting her but not sure if he should. Simon went to his own place at the table’s head while Bert, Walter and John took the near bench, leaving Hamon to go to the other side, to sit a wary distance from the crowner’s man. The stool that was usually Anne’s was across the room, near to the hearth, and Dickon claimed it, so that Mary made shift to sit at the crowner’s man’s other side with a displeased sweep of her skirts and a glare at Simon.
Dame Frevisse waited where she was until they were settled, then went to stand at the table’s end opposite to Simon. Her black nun’s garb gave her an authority she might otherwise have lacked, but as it was, her silence held them to silence as she gave them each a slow, long look before she said, still cold and clipped, “There are new questions about Tom Hulcote’s murder. You’re here to hear them and find out what answers there may be.”
‘What about Master Montfort?“ Walter asked, not challenging her so much as worried.
‘Master Christopher takes his part.“ She gave no time for other questions. ”Master Christopher, did you take close look at Tom Hulcote’s body yesterday?“
Not quite covering his uneasiness, the man answered, “Yes.”
‘What do you say killed him?“
‘His skull was broken and he was stabbed twice. In the back.“
Mary made a small choking noise and bowed her head to hide her face, her hands clenched together in her lap.
Master Christopher looked at her uncertainly, but Dame Frevisse said crisply, “The blow to his head. Where did it come from?”
‘Where?“ he repeated. ”You mean was he hit from in front or from in back?“
Dame Frevisse nodded. It was something she had asked Simon, but Master Christopher had a better answer than he had had. “I’d say from behind. The bone was more deeply broken to the back than to the front.”
‘What?“ said Walter. ”I don’t see.“
‘Show him,“ Dame Frevisse ordered.
As if unsure he should be doing this, Master Christopher stood up, stepped clear of the bench, and went to take up a length of firewood from beside the hearth while gesturing to Dickon to stand, asking him, “If you please, turn your back to me.”
Dickon, delighted, did.
‘Now see.“ Master Christopher swung the length of firewood slowly at the side of Dickon’s head, stopped short of him, and said, ”There’s enough curve to the skull that where the blow lands the force is greatest, the break will be deepest, while the blow loses force with the skull’s curve and the bone isn’t broken in so deeply.“
‘You could see that, looking at Tom’s skull?“ Walter asked.
‘I felt of the bone when I examined the body.“ Sickened distaste showed on all the men’s faces, his own with the rest, Simon feared. Mary had not looked up and still did not as Master Christopher went on, ”It was the only way to tell how badly broken the bone was. To tell if th
e blow had been enough to kill him.“
With as little feeling as if considering such things was an everyday part of her life, Dame Frevisse asked, “Was it?”
‘Very likely. It might have taken him a little time to die, but he would have.“
‘And been unconscious while he did?“
‘Yes.“
‘Why was he hit from the side? Wouldn’t striking down at the back of his head if you were attacking someone from behind be the more likely way?“
‘It would be.“ Master Christopher lifted the thin log and brought it down in a feigned blow at the back of Dickon’s head, again stopping short, but Dickon cringed a little anyway. ”The trouble is that the skull is thicker in the back. A blow there would stagger a man but, unless it was heavy beyond the common, not necessarily bring him down. The way a blow from the side more likely would. Particularly if the man giving the blow was shorter than the man attacked.“
The Reeve's Tale Page 24